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Ron Kilber |
This article is Copyright © 1982 and 1995 Ron Kilber. All rights reserved.
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... continued from Alaska Flying Sabbatical (Part 1).
Day 8 — Anchorage
It's already 10 am; I haven't been up very long, even though I
went to bed early last night. I guess all that flying from Northway
yesterday, together with too much tension en route, wore me out
pretty good. Anyway, here at the Big Timber Motel right on Merrill
Field, I did get a sound and good night's rest, in spite of the
fact that there are many noisy little airplanes right out the
door.
The rooms are really small, in fact, half the room is for the
bed and entry way, and the other half is for two bathrooms—one
for me and one for the room next door. In other words, about one
fourth of my room is used for the next room's bathroom. I've never
seen this type of "L" shaped room layout in a motel
before. It's probably an Alaskan strategy to hold down already
high construction costs. In other words, for every four rooms
built, the motel owner yields an extra room for free. The window
is smaller than usual, which is an asset for holding down the
heating bill, but it doesn't do much for lighting up the room
or for alleviating claustrophobia in already crowded quarters.
I'm sure I could do better for room size elsewhere in town for
the same price, but the added advantage here is that I get to
taxi my airplane right to my front doorstep. Sure beats the nuisance
of cabs and rental cars.
As I walk towards my airplane, I notice two men looking over my
little Coupe. Before I even get close, they notice me, and already
know I'm the owner, because when I arrive they tell me what a
nice bird I have. Both have pleasing dispositions, and they are
so relaxed and so confident, I'm envious. How does one attain
this much peace of mind, I wonder. I guess I've just been living
too long in Seattle and San Francisco where everyone seems so
jaded. One of the guys tells me he is a building contractor and
that he used to own an Ercoupe. We talk until lunch time (and
until they are satisfied they have my complete biography), and
then they invite me to lunch at a bar/restaurant within walking
distance of Merrill Field on East 5th Ave. I learn over lunch
from them that flying in Alaska is a little different than in
the Lower 48. For one thing, they tell me, it is legal to fly
airplanes 10% over gross in Alaska, and that everybody does it.
This does not sound too good to me. Certainly I wouldn't do it.
But then again, maybe it isn't any worse than flying an airplane
into a high altitude airport in New Mexico on a hot day. You just
compensate with a longer runway.
They continue, and tell me that in Alaska, if you can safely get
off the ground at 10% over gross, by the time you get to where
you are going, you will be well under gross after burning some
fuel. Also, they argue, if a pilot is making a delivery to an
outpost, he might be heavy when he lands, but after unloading,
he's light again for the takeoff to return home.
After lunch, my two friends leave me, so I just hang around the
airport. After a little while, I meet another friendly guy who
is doing the same as me—loitering around the airport. He is a
school teacher from Nome, and brought his plane in for some major
work. He has been killing time for several days while waiting
for completion of engine work at an FBO on the field. Actually,
the work was suppose to be done today, however, a slight problem
should not delay it beyond tomorrow morning.
My Nome friend has an old car which he keeps here at the airport
for use whenever he travels to Anchorage. In true Alaska tradition,
he wants to give me (a complete stranger) a guided tour of Anchorage.
As we first drive around the neighborhood near the airport, I'm
struck by how dirty everything is, especially the roadways. We
visit the shopping center (east of town if I'm not turned around),
a college, the city center area where there are some tall buildings,
then the International Airport, complete with a float plane facility
adjacent. After I treat him to some diner, I retreat to my large,
luxurious prison cell at the motel.
Day 9 — En Route to Homer
My throttle is practically fire-walled as I cruise south down
the coastline of the Kenai Peninsula. I want all the airspeed
I can get, for safety reasons, because I'm flying low again. In
fact, the coastline here is really an endless cliff, very shear,
along the Cook Inlet. I'd say the cliff is about one hundred and
fifty feet high, more or less, and on top is a highway winding
close to the edge. There are houses between the road and the edge
of the cliff. In fact, as far as I can see south, there seems
to be no end to the individual homesteads, spaced generously,
all with a birds-eye view of Cook Inlet.
Sometimes I fly below the precipice, just above the water, then
I pull up and climb above land and fly inland for awhile. I feel
I have the grace of a swan as I first bank gently left while climbing.
When I clear the cliff, I continue to bank, but now I lower the
nose so I can fly low over land. Eventually, I make a slow roll
to the right, towards the cliff, and descend down to the water
again. Then I repeat the whole process over. This is so much fun,
much more so than maneuvering around meadows and trees.
On one of the homesteads ahead, I can see people in their yard.
I descend out of their view, then, as I anticipate their position,
I climb just enough to sneak a peak. They wave at me, and I return
the gesture as I fly out of view.
I don't think I could ever get bored with these maneuvers. It
is just plain the greatest feeling of freedom for me. Even if
my engine stalls when I'm near the water, I'm confident the extra
airspeed I attain from diving is more than sufficient to trade
for altitude in order to reach the safety of the road above.
I don't know for sure if this kind of flying is considered bad
habit. If it is, there sure are a lot of pilots with bad habits.
While a student pilot in Las Cruces, NM, I remember the owner
of the University Air Academy taking me for a plane ride one day.
For a whole hour, all we did was fly 10 feet above some pecan
orchids in the area, as well as chase some roads in the surrounding
desert. That's when I got hooked, and I've been flying like this
regularly ever since.
This is my first flight since arriving at Merrill Field in Anchorage.
As I prepare for landing at Homer, I'm still a little ginger about
the engine stalling when I was on final at Northway. After I find
the airport, I see how huge the runway at Homer is—it looks two
miles long and plenty wide too. I wonder what such a huge airport
is doing way out here in the middle of nowhere. I decide to make
use of the long field and test my mighty little power plant for
carburetor ice and engine stall on landing. This is the perfect
place for such a test.
I maintain cruise power as I turn my base leg for runway 21. On
final, when I'm absolutely sure that I can make a dead-stick landing,
I slowly reduce power all the way. Sure enough, the engine losses
all power for the second time now. As I rotate, the propeller
stops before I touch down.
This is an eerie feeling, being at the controls of an airplane
on landing, without an engine and staring at a propeller which
no longer rotates.
With just enough momentum, I coast clear of the active onto the
taxiway. When I hit the starter, the engine springs back to life.
Boy, I can't deal with this anymore. Before, I might of believed
the motor stalled because of unusually moist, cold air at Northway,
however, those unstable conditions are not present here. I'm just
a little worried now. The dead-stick landing put the fear of God
in me (epinephrin too).
The Land's End Resort is at the end of a natural spit extending
what seems to be 7 miles into the Kacemak Bay and perpendicular
to runway 21. I'm riding in the shuttle, and as we travel the
length of the spit, the driver is telling me all about the Kacemak
Bay, and how it is the richest seafood body of water in the entire
world. They harvest so much fish here, it is mind boggling he
says. Most of it is flown out in 747 cargo ships, thus the huge
Homer airport.
As we near the resort, he directs my attention to a fish processor
selling huge shrimp (5 to the pound) for $1. Imagine that, a pound
of shrimp for $1. That would cost $10 or more back home. Alaskan
halibut, my favorite fish dish, comes right from these waters.
I think I'm the only regular guest here right now. I find out
from the desk clerk that everyone else at the resort is an employee
working somewhere on the spit, either as a fisherman or fish processor
worker. All of them are staying in the bunkhouse for seasonal
workers, which is operated as an annex to the resort.
I decide to go outside to tour the spit, but soon exhaust all
opportunities after only thirty minutes. There just isn't all
that much out here, for me anyway. I guess if you're a fisherman,
then this certainly must be a paradise. As far as get-aways go,
I certainly wouldn't call this a resort.
Before I go back inside, I notice there are many tents set up
on the beach. I don't see any people, but the wind is very cold
and is blowing about forty miles per hour. If I were camping,
I'd be in my tent too (if that's where they are).
Unexpectedly to me, the lounge has quite a crowd, but it is unusually
dark and quiet for a place of libation. I order a brew from the
bartender who is not friendly at all. In fact, my impression is
that she is annoyed by my very presence. As I drink my beer, I
notice the other patrons (more than likely seasonal workers).
All are men and all of them seem so reserved. In fact, I'm not
even sure the paired ones are talking with each other, just drinking
with each other. Then again, to me, this is a desolate place,
and maybe their dispositions are just a normal reaction of the
boredom and void which must exist out here. Actually, I'm sort
of depressed right now myself.
After one more brew, I go to the restaurant and experience the
worst halibut diner of my entire life. Imagine that, at the richest
and best seafood bay in the world. Maybe it's just that I'm here
too early in the season.
Day 10 — Homer to Anchorage
I'm a little worried about the carburetor icing problem, so today
I think I will go back to Merrill Field in Anchorage and try to
find someone to help me resolve it.
As I ride in the shuttle past the $1 shrimp again, I contemplate
the idea of owning something like a Turbo Centurion. Let me see,
If I buy 1,000 pounds of shrimp, I could fly it to the San Francisco
bay area and probably sell it wholesale for 7 bucks a pound. That's
a gross profit of $6,000—not bad for a day's work.
Returning to anchorage is uneventful. I notice some people fishing
on a river between Skilak Lake and the Cook Inlet. This lowland
of the Kenai Peninsula is so barren (and flat). By this I mean
devoid of large vegetation. And when I look east to the mountains,
they are completely white from all the snow. It just seems that
there is not a live plant anywhere, although I know there has
to be, and probably buried in deep snow.
I'm on final to Merrill Field for the second time since first
arriving in Alaska, and very much concerned about carburetor ice.
All is well with the engine though, as I touch down heading north
without a hint of engine stall. I taxi to the Big Timber Motel.
The clerk remembers me, and I get room 205 again. This time he
tells me about the weekly rate, so I pay him $172.75.
Day 11 — Anchorage
Today I want to resolve the problem with my engine. So I walk
to a repair station on the field where the owner and several of
his mechanics are working on several single engine bush planes.
The fuselages are all torn apart, and much of the zinc chromate
primer is exposed.
The proprietor informs me that it will be several weeks before
he can take a look at the problem with my Ercoupe. In spite of
his schedule, he is very much concerned with my puzzle. In fact,
he advises me that the problem might have been put there when
the engine was overhauled.
He explains how the engine compartment of an airplane is actually
two compartments. At least it is suppose to be. The top compartment
houses the top half of the engine; the bottom compartment houses
the bottom half of the engine. While the airplane is flying, ram
air is forced into the top compartment via the nose bowl. With
no where to go once in the top compartment, the air's only escape
path is right over and through the cooling fins of each cylinder.
In this way, the engine is guaranteed maximum cooling from the
incoming air.
He thinks I may have an air leak in the top engine compartment.
Therefore, not enough air is passing over the cylinders, and not
enough hot air is reaching the carburetor in the bottom engine
compartment. This may be my problem, and he says I can fix it
myself, if it is.
Sure enough, I inspect the engine compartment and find that the
rear seals are missing. It is apparent to me that much intake
air can escape, and worse, that this can severely impair engine
cooling on a hot day. I don't have engine over-heating to worry
about here in Alaska, but I am anxious to correct this deficiency
right away.
I use the rest of the day and gather all the material and tools
necessary to complete the job tomorrow.
Day 12 — Anchorage
After fiddling all day with the engine cowling and rear compartment
seals, I'm satisfied my Ercoupe is in better shape than ever.
In fact, just by looking at the air path in the lower compartment,
I'm confident the old boy knows what he is talking about.
Back at the motel, I'm watching the news on television. The British
are dukeing it out with the Argentine military positions in the
Faulkland Islands. Listening to the political leaders speak and
boast (with impunity) about this conflict is most unpleasant (forget
about all the lives of the troupes, they are expendable). How
arrogant.
Day 13 — Anchorage
There are good things and bad things about Alaska. I find this
out by renting a car and getting around a little. The best I can
do is with Alaska Dial-A-Car at $28.95 per day (cars here must
be worth their weight in Klondike gold). Having to pay more for
a car than a room is rather discouraging.
On the other hand, the people in the shopping center, the restaurants,
and everywhere are just plain nice folks.
The weather is generally gloomy, so I have lunch at a large hotel
in downtown Anchorage and spend some time loitering around the
lobby.
The hotel lobby here in Anchorage doesn't hold much promise for
human interaction, so I go back to my room and take a nap.
Afterwards, I'm hungry for some Italian food, and the exercise
of looking for a pasta restaurant makes me think about my favorite
place in California. I am an Italian food connoisseur, and by
far the best place in the bay area that I've been to is the Florentine
Restaurant in Mountain View, California. Their sauce is so rich
and so exquisitely delicious. I always made sure to use plenty
of the sauce with each mouthful of pasta. That way, when the waiter
noticed that the remaining pasta on my plate didn't have any more
sauce on it, I always got an extra side dish of sauce for free.
If I could only have some of that rich sauce right now, I'd be
in seventh heaven.
Day 14 — Anchorage
Another gloomy day here in the land of the midnight sun. Due to
the weather, I can't even go for a sight-seeing excursion to the
glaciers.
Beside the weather, there is another big problem with Alaska.
Where are the women? There are not that many anywhere in sight.
The ones that are seem to always be escorted by one or more men.
In a bar, it's about a 20 to 1 ratio. My impression is that if
I tried to make a move on one, not only do I risk mathematically
certain rejection (I don't have a beard or a red plaid shirt),
but probably the wrath of some burly bushman fearing his babe
might have a soft spot for a more refined gentleman. Some do look
at me like I'm a threat. I doubt many conflicts are resolved in
Alaska without resorting to assault and battery, so I decide to
keep my hands to myself.
Day 15 — Anchorage
Today the weather is clear so I decide to do some sight-seeing
of the glaciers in the mountains to the southeast. Most unappealing
about the immediate vicinity to Anchorage are the huge mud flats
on the shores of Cook Inlet and surrounding waterways. When the
tide is out, it seems this mud is ten miles wide in places. I
wonder about the consequences of landing in this mud. My first
thought is that any airplane would immediately invert from the
tremendous drag on the landing gear. Once inverted on the mud,
is there any escape? Surely I would be trapped upside down, only
to drown when the tide returns.
Not more than fifty miles from Anchorage, I see several cumulus
nimbus clouds, dark and black at the base, and billowing to what
must surely be thirty thousand feet. Precipitation lowers the
visibility below the clouds to less than a quarter mile. I think
of the violent updrafts, and wonder how long of an elevator ride
it is to the tops. These storms are only miles across at the base,
so I maneuver around them.
The glaciers for me are not a big deal at all. In fact, I'm wondering
what it is that attracts so many to them. I take a few close-up
looks, then head back to Anchorage.
Day 16 — Anchorage
My motel rent is due tomorrow, so today I think I will decide
if I will stay another week here, or move on to another place,
like Fairbanks.
While buying charts from the FBO where I received help with my
engine compartment air leaks, a local pilot strikes up a conversation
with me. He is interested in my whereabouts as well as my plans.
I learn that he is in the hovercraft business, and that he is
experimenting with deploying these vehicles for hauling huge amounts
of cargo across the Cook Inlet and elsewhere. Hovercrafting is
especially advantageous during fowl weather when all airplanes
are grounded. But launching a new business that depended on marginal
weather is foolhardy at best, so he is experimenting to see if
hover crafting can have a cost advantage compared to airplanes.
After a half hour of chatting, I'm on my way with him to his hover
craft facility across town on East 1st Avenue. We take one of
the vehicles for a joy ride. My first impression is that these
things are extremely noisy, and not from just the engines alone,
but from the tornado-speed winds which are required to sustain
hovering. The dust and dirt are flying everywhere, and it is most
annoying, especially as if you are right out of the shower.
Afterwards, we retreat to the comfort (and silence) of his office
where we talk about Alaska and flying. Then we discuss the possibility
of an opportunity for me in the hover craft business, however,
I tell him that I already have plans in the desert (and warmth)
of Arizona.
Back at the motel, it is late in the day. I wonder about flying
to Fairbanks, or is this something I should save for another visit
to Alaska. I do want to return here again someday. One thing for
sure though, I think I've been in Anchorage long enough for one
spell—maybe Alaska too.
I decide to check the weather, then I decide to check out of my
room in the morning. Another weather system is moving across Alaska,
and it will overtake Northway by tomorrow evening. If I want to
leave Anchorage, I must do it first thing in the morning, otherwise,
I will be stuck here for several more days. I decide to skip the
idea about goingto Fairbanks. Instead, tomorrow I will depart
for the lower 48.
Also, on the way home, I think I would like to try my hand at
the shortcut through the famed and notorious Trench.
Day 17 — Anchorage to Northway, and Points Beyond
Considering the advancing storm, the weather is remarkable nice
here early in the morning.
It isn't long before I'm on my first leg home to Northway. As
I follow the Glenn Highway, I'm looking for the sheep I'm suppose
to see at, of all places, Sheep Mountain. Sure enough, there they
are, right in some small mountains off the right side of the road.
It is incredible where I see some of these mountain sheep. How
they got on top of the rock is a mystery. And what are they doing
there anyway? There doesn't appear to be any food for them at
all.
I wish I could see Mt. Mckinley today, but the approaching weather
makes it impossible to discern the horizon from the sky. Off to
my right though, I can clearly see the peaks of mountains reaching
over 12,000 feet. Also, a few good sized glaciers are in plain
view too.
Some of the glaciers from here look to be maybe twenty miles long.
Knowing they measure glacier movement in inches per day, I wonder
how old the ice is on the leading edge, before it melts or breaks
off. How long does it take a given chunk of ice to move from the
beginning of the glacier to its end?
One foot of movement per day would take a glacier about 15 years
to move only one mile, or 300 years to move twenty miles. Then
again, assuming only two inches of movement per day, the nose
of the glacier started out about the time they switched the calendars
from B.C. to A.D.
I decide to brave the shortcut (which we took on the way into
Anchorage from Northway) across the tundra alone this time, so
I break away from the Glenn Highway at Duffys Tavern and head
for Suslota Pass. Even with the advancing weather from the west,
the visibility is much better today than it was when I went through
here before.
I consider one of my strongest piloting skills to be dead reckoning.
Just give me a chart, and I think I will find my way anywhere,
even without a compass.
This shortcut is well worth the time savings, however, I sure
would not want to loose an engine out here. There is nothing,
nowhere. I do not even see game tracks.
One thing is for certain, with good visibility, this route has
no hint of intimidation for me, as was the case when I came through
here with my newly-met guide at Northway. Except of course for
the thought of a forced landing out here. Without survival gear,
life would indeed be grim (or short).
Now I'm on a very high final to Northway. I slowly pull the power
back so as I don't cool the engine too fast. When the throttle
is all the way off, the engine idles perfectly with no hint of
a stall at all. I am convinced the carburetor icing problem has
been cured. Right now, I'm so high I must do large S turns to
descend without over-shooting the runway (I wish this Ercoupe
could slip). All is well that ends well, as I touch down just
in time to catch the taxiway to the fuel pumps.
After fuel and food, I want to go to Whitehorse, Yukon, via Burwash,
and Hanes Junction. Altogether, it's about 300 miles to my destination
in Whitehorse. Hanes Junction is not reporting VFR, but Burwash
is. I figure I might as well go to Burwash Landing and wait it
out there. At least I'll be making some progress. If I'm lucky,
maybe the weather will move farther east while I'm traveling,
then I can fly on into Whitehorse.
Burwash Landing is a virtual nothing on the northwest end of Kluane
Lake. About all that is here is an airfield and a weather station
with a few antennas on top. The station is manned by one person
who tells me he has been here three months. Boy, back in Anchorage
I though I was getting lonely. This guy is way beyond loneliness.
I would say that he's more like catatonic. From the moment he
lays his eyes on me, I can tell he does not want me to leave—ever.
First, he makes a cup of coffee, which I badly need. Then he shows
me all around the building, like I'm a guest who just arrived
to stay for a week. There's the bathroom, and over there I can
sleep on the couch if I'm tired. The hospitality is great, especially
for a weary traveler.
When he gives me a weather briefing that Hanes Junction doesn't
look good at all, somehow I suspect the information is inaccurate,
and thus, just his ploy to get me to hang around for a few days
and provide companionship. I'm certain the weather reports are
accurate, however, I'm not certain he wants to encourage me to
leave.
I hang around for about three hours, and then I check the weather
again. Hanes Junction has been steadily progressing to VFR all
day, but it is still too marginal. Northway, where I just came
from, no longer is VFR. The advancing weather has overtaken and
is heading this way.
If I make a run for it now, by the time I get to Hanes Junction,
the weather will be even better. Should I make a run for it? I
look in the direction of Northway and now see the huge front about
thirty miles away which is quickly approaching. If I don't move
now, how long will I be stuck here? I can't imagine staying here
for the time it will take for all this to pass.
Against my host's better judgment, within five minutes I'm in
the air flying easterly, outrunning the weather from behind. It
is only about 70 miles to Hanes Junction, then another 90 miles
or so to Whitehorse.
The ceiling is much lower than reported, and this forces me to
fly about 800 feet above the Alcan Highway.
When I reach the east end of Kluane Lake, I make a slight course
adjustment over higher ground, so I don't loose sight of the road.
Now the ceiling is even tighter, and boy do I have gratitude and
comfort for having that road below me and in my view. I have no
intentions of taking my eyes off it.
Looking back in the direction of Burwash Landing, I can no longer
see the airport. The front has completely engulfed it, and now
is beginning to do a good job of consuming all of Kluane lake.
The valley I'm flying over has solid overcast, no more than 1,500
feet AGL. The forested valley floor gently slopes to the mountains
with 8 to 9,000 foot peaks on each side, and then disappears into
the low ceiling overhead.
As I approach Hanes Junction, something does not look right, and
I no longer believe the weather is clearing there. In fact, quite
the opposite is occurring right before my eyes. If my orientation
is correct, the ceiling is right on top of the village. The Alcan
Highway disappears into the clouds as it snakes through the pass
to the northeast of Hanes Junction on its way to Whitehorse. To
my horror, my route is totally obscured and impassable.
In fact, in every direction I now look, the ground meets the clouds.
I get the feeling that the valley I am in is a huge bowl, and
I'm flying just under the lid of clouds reaching to mountains
on all sides. There is no retreating to Burwash, although now
I wish I had stayed there with that attendant. Unless I find another
way over the small mountain range between here and Whitehorse,
I'm trapped. And not only that, a forced landing is a certainty.
The chart indicates a road branching off the Alcan Highway at
Hanes Junction heading southeast off the chart in the direction
of what must be Skagway. I find it and follow the road, but it
is no use. It disappears into clouds too.
Things do not look good at all. Now I resign myself to the fact
that indeed a forced landing is imminent. Short of a miracle,
I have nowhere else to go. It is only a matter of time, and I
will be forced to set down on the road. How embarrassing this
is going to be, as I think about the awkwardness of explaining
my predicament to a passing traveler who cannot proceed because
I am blocking the narrow road with my airplane.
Coming to grips with this reality is difficult. I'm unhappy with
myself for not staying at Burwash Landing. How stupid to be so
impatient, I think.
With just under two hours of fuel remaining, I have no other recourse
but to fly around and around, if I want to avoid setting her down.
For now, I'm content to delay the inevitable for as long as possible.
So I fly in the direction of Hanes Junction again. Out of desperation
(and much metabolism), I wonder if I should make a run through
the pass on instruments. It's not that far to the other side,
according to the chart. Fear, not logic, prevents me from this
insane option. At least over here out of the pass, I'm alive with
or without fuel. But over there in the pass, I have no such guarantee.
As if I don't have enough problems already, I can see that the
visibility is deteriorating rapidly to the west. I'm convinced
there is zero chance for retreat or refuge in the direction of
Burwash Landing. Fear drives me southeast again over the windy
road to Skagway, where I can fly higher off the ground. There
is no other way to face this. Indeed, I'm trapped over the bush
south and east of Hanes Junction.
The chart indicates a small valley through the little mountain
range between here and Whitehorse. It looks to be maybe 12 miles
south of the pass which the Alcan Highway goes through. Maybe
I can make it through this pass, then pick up the Alcan once on
the other side.
I check it out, but it does not hold promise. So I turn around
and retreat. By now the ceiling is even lower, so I'm forced to
fly so low over the trees, I can no longer see the road from Hanes
Junciton to Skagway . This sends a surge of epinephrine throughout
my body, and my heart races as it prepares me for the inevitable.
Now I am really afraid as I realize, on top of all else which
has gone wrong, that now I'm lost too.
Up to this point, the recognizable landmarks on the chart have
provided me with a great deal of comfort. No longer can I recognize
anything on the chart. Where is the road? I am puzzled as I ponder
my disorientation, and realize during these last thirty minutes
I've been navigating solely by terrain, without any instrumentation
at all. Where am I? Nothing looks right out there anymore.
I can't help thinking about pilots who have lost their lives in
a plane crash. And how their tragedy is used to teach us the unforgiving
nature of flying. I can remember how I've always swore I would
never intentionally do anything stupid, like fly without checking
the weather. Well, here I am, not only doing something stupid,
but in spite of checking the weather. Is this what has happened
for so many unfortunate pilots? Is this how it happened to them,
by just sneaking up on them, and hitting them over the head?
I think about how my Ercoupe and I are the same age. We both arrived
on the earth in the exact same year. Are we now going to part
together, too, I wonder?
Considering the gravity of this situation, I don't know how I'm
able to stay so remarkably in control, especially in my heightened
state of alarm. One of my greatest fears has always been that
I would panic in an emergency. This situation is now an emergency,
but I have not panicked. Not yet, anyway.
Maybe it is not yet time to panic. I do have more than enough
fuel, plus reserve. But what about when I have only 5 minutes
left, or when the engine stops? Will I panic then?
Maybe my subconscious mind tells me there is no need to panic,
because I do have the recourse of crashing into the trees. If
I make a well controlled ditch, maybe the trees will do the rest,
and the worst that will happen is that I will loose my airplane.
These thoughts and more all race through my mind. In fact, my
entire life is on instant replay, and now I have an acute mental
awareness of all my remembrances.
Concurrent to reliving my life, I'm still tuned into reality.
The reality that if I'm to get out of this miss which I flew myself
into, in one piece, I must find a way out. And I must do it now.
As luck would have it, I find myself flying low and oblique to
the road back to Hanes Junction. I am not flying perpendicular
as I expect, and my heading is off considerably from my expectation.
Now things are fitting back in their place again with the chart.
As I approach Hanes Junction one more time, I notice that the
Alcan Highway is more apparent as it winds through the pass. A
closer look reveals daylight on the other side. In fact, I can
actually see places in the valley beyond where it is clear. This
is most promising, even though the pass is extremely marginal.
I decide to make a run for.
Things have improved here remarkable in only thirty minutes. In
an effort to stay out of the clouds, I'm actually flying about
50 feet off the deck as I negotiate the pass. Even so, I am running
an obstacle course of clouds. I dodge the thick ones and fly right
through the thinly formed ones. Pretty soon I am in the clear,
and it is all over.
Wow! What a nightmare. And what a relief. That was close. Very
close.
Will I ever do a dumb thing like that again? No! Never!
As I descend into Whitehorse, there is no hint of carburetor icing.
The problem definitely seems to be behind me. The nose tank is
still full, but both wing tanks are bone dry.
Without bothering to refuel, I tie my bird down and walk the short
distance to the lodging district. I find a room at the Airport
Chalet, consume a nice hot meal, and within thirty minutes I hit
the sack and I'm sound asleep.
... continued in Alaska Flying Sabbatical (Part 3).
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